


Agradecido

by Darling_Jack



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, It's just cute, Language Barrier, Music, Pre-Canon, Spanish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-23 22:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30062340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack
Summary: Javier doesn't speak English. The rest of the gang doesn't speak Spanish.But that doesn't mean they can't communicate.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 22





	Agradecido

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I only barely speak Spanish. Fingers crossed I didn't mess anything up :D

Javier sat a ways away from the gathering of tents. He could hear them laughing and shouting; sharing dinner together in the warm evening air. They spoke loudly— happily. Even he could tell that much.

Even if he couldn’t understand a damn word anyone said. 

He spoke English well enough, when he was speaking to people who didn’t speak English at all. A few words, here and there— important things like _“it’s the police”_ and _“shoot him”_ , but nothing else besides. These people though… They spoke in ways he couldn’t understand unless he really, really focused, and even then he was only picking out words here or there. Their words had a blessed slowness to them, but their speech was so riddled with strange saying and odd pronunciation that he earnestly was lost most of the time.

He barely spoke well enough to get by and not _nearly_ well enough to converse. To understand. 

So nobody tried.

He didn’t try either. They all seemed like nice enough people; interesting folk, always grinning, always laughing, but trying to follow a conversation for too long was frustrating and left him with the buds of a headache. He _was_ grateful to Dutch for taking him in, despite this. Where once Javier had been a goddamned revolutionary— a _hero,_ his name feared and celebrated— he’d now found himself nothing more than a kicked dog. An outcast. A chicken-stealing drifter scrounging and scavenging like a damn coyote. 

Dutch, it seemed, made a habit of snatching men like him off the street and giving them some kind of purpose. A home, if nothing else, and a warm meal. 

And Javier couldn’t thank him enough for that. Quite literally, unfortunately, for though the words flowed easily enough in Spanish, in English he could barely choke out a ‘thank you’ without forgetting the words that came next. His days were lonely now, but they were lonely before too, at least here, with them, he was safe. 

Javier sighed, his watching the sun sink down through the trees. Slowly, thoughtfully, he plucked at his guitar. This, at least, he understood. The notes carried into the air; soft, gentle. An old corrido he’d heard once. The kind he would’ve liked to see written about himself. 

He was so lost in his playing he didn’t notice someone approaching from behind.

When they sat, he startled, nearly dropping his guitar in that flash of panic. The man held his hands up in surrender as best he could, each occupied by a bottle of beer.

Javier caught his breath. This was…. The name eluded him. The old one. Van der Linde’s right hand man; the one who kept the camp running smoothly. 

Regardless, he handed Javier one of the bottles, which he accepted tentatively. He sipped as the old man settled in on the ground next to him. They seemed to sit together in mutual appreciation of the beauty around them for a moment, both merely watching the world turn and breathe and be. The air was filled only with the far-off sounds of laughter and the gentle plucking of Javier’s guitar. Something different this time; smoother, repetitive and sweet. 

Until he spoke.

“Uh... Hola.”

The word was soft and unsure, but caught Javier’s attention nevertheless. His eyebrows raised in surprise. 

“... Buenas tardes,” he replied, equally soft. He knew this man didn’t speak Spanish; none of them did. But damn it, something warmed in his chest all the same, something that nearly brought tears to his eyes. 

“Buenas tardes,” the man echoed, placing a hand over his chest, “Hosea.”

Hosea, Javier remembered then, was the man’s name. His first day here, Dutch had taken him around, eagerly pointing out different folk and stating nothing but their name. It’s no wonder it didn’t stick; he hadn’t spoken to any of them since. 

Javier smiled, sticking out his hand in greeting.

“Javier.”

At that, the man rambled, speaking clearly and slowly but with words Javier only barely understood. Apparently his blank stare communicated that better than words ever could, because in the next second, Hosea had produced a book. He quickly flipped through the pages, dragging his finger along the text.

“Lo siento,” he parsed out, “Tengo un... un libro para aprender el español.”

Javier couldn’t fight back the warm, bubbling chuckle that burst from inside him. His pronunciation was horrible, and his grammar even worse, but it earnestly tugged at his heart to hear the man try so damn hard.

_‘A book for to study the Spanish’_ , he’d said. But Javier understood well enough. He’d heard of such things— books with lists of words in two different languages. Dictionaries made for translation. He'd never seen one in person. Where Hosea had found one out in the middle of nowhere, he wasn’t sure, but damn he couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face.

“Thank you,” Javier replied, “I uh…Ha pasado un tiempo desde que alguien intentó hablar conmigo… pues... Pues gracias… lo agradezco. Y... lo siento."

An apology, he supposed, was appropriate; this was a burden, after all. Having a man around who could neither speak nor be spoken to was hard. Learning Spanish was hard; hell, learning English was damn near impossible. 

Hosea didn’t understand; he tried flipping through the pages of his little dictionary before closing it entirely. Instead, he smiled. 

“Guitarra?” Hosea asked simply, “El… El musica?”

Javier’s smile only widened. 

“Yes,” he beamed, “La musica— The music, a guitar! It is… _mierda,_ como se dice... “ 

Wordlessly, Hosea handed him the dictionary. 

Javier merely stared at it for a second, unsure. Tears burned in his eyes. He set his guitar aside, flipping through the pages with reverence.

“Ballad,” he said, quietly, as if worried to pronounce the word wrong, “Una corrida, a ballad.” 

Hosea nodded thoughtfully, a smile spread over his features. He gestured at Javier’s guitar, “Cielito Lindo?”

Javier’s ears perked up at that. Despite the odd way he’d pronounced it, almost as if he were pronouncing every letter separately, Javier recognized what Hosea was trying to say. A request, if he had to guess, and that alone set his heart aflutter. 

“¿Tú sabes?” he asked excitedly, gathering up his instrument once more. He plucked a few strings, a warmup, before playing that song more carefully and with more passion than he had any in awhile. 

Hosea sat and listened, eyes closed, soaking in the music, humming along at points and merely appreciating it at others. When Javier had finished, and looked anxiously towards Hosea to gauge his reaction, Hosea merely twisted his face into a frown. Deep in thought. 

Javier wondered if perhaps he’d gotten something wrong, or maybe he’d misunderstood the situation, because then Hosea was standing, fixing to walk away.

But he stopped, and he gestured. When Javier didn’t move, Hosea pulled him along gently, chattering on as he dragged Javier back to camp by the arm. 

“Oye, ¿a dónde vamos? _¡Oye!_ _¡Hosea!”_

They were welcomed warmly by the others, all drunk and giggly. Hosea announced something. Javier picked out his own name, but not much else, and Hosea merely sat him down and gestured at him expectantly.

Javier was entirely lost. The gang now buzzed with anticipation of something, but for the life of him he couldn’t tell what. He glanced at Hosea, wide-eyed.

“¿Qué tengo que…. hacer?”

Hosea spoke to him again; reassuring, if completely unintelligible. A cold sweat dripped down his cheek.

Quietly, Javier asked: “¿...Cielito Lindo?”

And the gang _erupted._ They hollered, awash in a wave of excitement, babbling encouragingly, pleading, laughing. Their joy was infectious; Javier found himself carried away himself. He played, he sang, and they sang too; a drunken chorus, gathered around, belting the few parts they could recall at the top of their lungs. 

Javier played through the night, his songs slower, softer when the camp died down, until it was just him playing for the dying embers of the campfire and Hosea lost in the clear tones of his guitar. 

When Javier’s fingers were sore and he could barely keep his eyes open, Hosea laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He said nothing, only smiled, before ushering him off to bed.

Javier laid there as the night drew on, unable to rid himself of the grin that was stuck on his face. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! I don't really speak Spanish anymore, so if any of this is wrong, let me know! 
> 
> Also, I think this is the first fluff piece I've ever written that didn't have some tragic twist to go along with it... Let me know what you all think! 
> 
> See you soon! ¡Besitos! ♡♡♡♡♡


End file.
